Poetry

Collecting, yes, collecting still

the next / will nourish me / better I say yes / the next will fill me up.

A room is a lonely place

And everyone with their own air.

Untitled, despite my want

The rain / tries to remind me that all a cloud is, is collection—and perhaps / I am.

Nocturnal vanishing act

When you fall as often as I do / (three times a day and once a night), it’s hard not / to disappear into your own shadow puppets.

25

I am behaving / as though the entire / year is here with / me today

Sitting in Washington Square Park with Allen Ginsberg

I stop, will myself to split the thought in two. / I am always a finger’s breadth away from a gentle danger.

Ouroboros

Every name I pull out of my hair is a soft / blow to the spine, decibels for Newtons.

SUBSTANCE

there is a two-inch gap behind my books, / a mouth stuffed with shiny aluminum / packaging

The tree outside the barbershop

was struck down / sometime last / night, its Siamese / boughs / wrenched from / each other